I took the pen with me,After signing the parlor guest book, At the Home.

You might think of forgiving me,Thinking as good people do,I took it as a memorial sticking point;But I didn't know the deceased.

I was acting as a devout escort,To be seen as doing the right thing.Perception, you've been told,Is everything.

So, I made sure no one saw meTake the pen.

For extra insurance,To project my semblance,Following the eulogies,I attended the luncheon,And ate salmon sandwiches,And carrot sticks.On leaving, I grasped the hands:Sorry for your troubles;Came home and used that pen,To create this. The End.

Silent and timidHer lips curve up into a shy smileConcealing sharp remarks and loud declarations

Eyes gleaming with innocenceHide the shrewdness and depth within themWhich capture the world around her

Not long passes before you're amused to seeShe speaks of music and art and poetryIf at first you saw no reason to show her recognitionYou consider her now with interest

Soon enough you discoverAn intense love of novels burns within herHer vocabulary is vast and she has written sonnets of her own

Now you are astonishedRegarding her with curious eyesYou want to learn moreAnd wish to enter the crevices of her mind

More surprises surfaceWhat she speaks suits not your first impression of herHer opinions and views and philosophies are broadCovering many topics and questionsShe is a pillar of tradition Yet she ventures into foreign pasturesAnd your amazement increases tenfold

You slowly break through her former barriersWalls high and guarded as those of a castleGradually uncovering her feelings and her dreamsAwed and bewitched you are leftAnd you cannot grasp what you've beheld

How deceiving the long skirt which drapes herHow misleading the modest blouse she wearsAnd the simple way she wears her hairDelude all who see her

Appearance has fooled us all so greatly this timeBy branding a girl something Which her clothes falsely imply.